


every tenderness i have ever known

by vlieger



Category: Warrior (2011)
Genre: Family, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 12:53:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12059370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vlieger/pseuds/vlieger
Summary: "You scared?" says Frank after a moment, tilting his head."Of you?" scoffs Tommy."Of a grill at Brendan's place," says Frank. "Maybe his two baby girls?"Yes, Tommy doesn't say. He's fucking terrified. He can't have that— that perfect family, that happiness, because he'll fuck it up, and then he'll lose it, and he's bone-tired of losing things.





	every tenderness i have ever known

Tommy's working out at Frank's gym early one weekday morning. Stupidly early— the kind of time normal nine-to-five people— people like Brendan— are barely thinking about rolling into consciousness. The sky outside is bleak Philly pre-dawn, and there's barely enough lights on in the gym to see his own fists in front of his face. He's not entirely sure he's welcome here, but Brendan had given him a key and told him it was fine, and Tommy likes to challenge people on face-value. Besides, the kind of run-down, shithole gyms he usually frequents are the kind of place people don't leave him alone, now. Try to talk to him or film him working out. 

It fucking sucks.

He's been here at Frank's weird, too-bright cathedral-shrine of body worship, or whatever the fuck, every morning for nearly a week. Early enough that he's never run into Frank— no one but a few single-minded pre-work junkies and maybe a couple other staff, here and there.

Tommy doesn't care, anyway, so long as they all leave him alone.

They have, so far, and so he's kept coming. He needs someplace he can rely on now that he's allowed to work out for real, now that he doesn't have to make do with those pussy elastic-band physio exercises, can actually work on rebuilding the real strength in his left side. 

He's warming up, hitting light jabs at the bag with both arms, testing his balance, when Frank says, "You know, you don't have to work out in the dark. You should join our sessions. I can throw you into rotation, introduce you to some of the guys, get you sparring properly."

Tommy very deliberately doesn't startle. "I don't need you to save me," he spits.

"I'm not trying to save you," says Frank. "I'm trying to help you."

"Same thing, ain't it?" says Tommy, sneering. He looks at Frank over his shoulder.

"No," says Frank. "You want saving, only person who can do that is you."

"I don't want it," says Tommy. "I don't _need_ it."

"It's not a one-time thing, saving yourself," says Frank, tilting his head, all mild and easy like he's teaching some fucking self-help class. "It's not some big event and then it's done. It's life. It's living right, doing right. And it's a hell of a lot easier if you let people help you along the way."

"I don't need any fuckin' help," says Tommy.

"Yeah, you do," says Frank. "Everyone does, one time or another. Brendan won Sparta, and he did it 'cause he's Brendan and it's his life, but you think it could've happened without my help?"

"'Course it fuckin' could," snaps Tommy, some instinctual little brother defensiveness kicking in without his conscious permission.

Frank huffs a laugh. "Okay, sure," he says. He half-turns to go, and Tommy pulls back his arm for another swing at the bag when Frank pauses and adds, "You been doing a good job saving yourself, Tommy. You're doing good. But you've been doing it alone, and you don't have to anymore. It doesn't have to be so hard anymore. It's not weak, to let yourself rest. It's not weak to let yourself be happy." He shrugs, running a hand over a weight machine. "Think about it."

Tommy lets his fist fly at the bag.

Frank grins and says, "By the way, Brendan tells me your shoulder's all healed up."

"So what?" grits Tommy.

"So I don't get why you're still weak as shit on your left side," says Frank brightly, and leaves.

What a smarmy little asshole, thinks Tommy.

 

The thing is, Tommy's not an idiot. He knows Frank is right.

He knows he's done the best he can, and he knows that now he needs— more. He's not sure what that looks like, exactly, but knowing he needs it is probably a good start.

The problem is he's got help coming at him from more angles than he knows what to do with. It's a lot, after so long with nothing, but when he really thinks about it, it's not exactly rocket science.

Anyone tied to the Corps is out. He doesn't know much, but he knows that going back there isn't what he needs. Pilar doesn't need his shit bringing her down, now or ever. Brendan is too much, too complicated— it's messy and it _hurts_ , and it's not all a bad kind of hurt anymore, but it's too many fucking feelings he can't deal with until his head's on a little straighter.

That leaves Frank.

Frank is neutral. He doesn't give a shit that Tommy is Brendan's brother. That's pretty fucking obvious— he made sure Brendan finished him at Sparta. All he cares about is the fact that Tommy can fight, that he's good enough to throw into rotation and make it worthwhile.

Tommy shows up at the gym in the over-bright middle of two days later, arms crossed over his chest and head pulled back under the hood of his sweatshirt. He hangs back near the wall, watching. The place is a fucking hive of movement, sleek guys in their sleek workout gear crawling all over like insects. There's a couple of them sparring in the ring, and that stupid fucking Beethoven is playing, and Frank is standing to the side shouting something stupid about feeling the music with his stupid, over-earnest hoarse voice. It's kind of weird, Tommy thinks, all the things he never even realised he knows about Frank. He supposes you pick up on shit about the architect behind your brother breaking you in front of the whole world. 

One of the guys in the ring taps out, and Frank ushers them aside before he ducks over to Tommy.

"Wanna jump in?" he says.

Tommy chews on his lip. "Don't do that Beethoven bullshit," he says.

"You do in my gym," says Frank.

Tommy scowls at him. "I get to fight?"

"Sure, you get to fight," says Frank.

"Whatever," says Tommy. He pushes past Frank, towards the ring.

"Go hard at his left," Frank tells Tommy's first opponent. He smirks at Tommy, a quickfire little thing, there and gone.

Smug fucking asshole, thinks Tommy.

 

Tommy doesn't listen to Frank because he's Frank. He listens to him because he's a fighter and it's ingrained, listening to his trainer. Which is how he figures out that Frank is _good_.

He knew, objectively, that there must be something under all the zen, Classical music, breathe and believe soul-of-a-lion bullshit. You don't get to where Frank is with no substance. 

It's different, though, actually feeling it. Knowing it in the drip of sweat into his eyes and the burn in his muscles, the ache in his healing shoulder and the bruises smeared across his face. 

Frank doesn't coddle him, attacks his weaknesses, turns them into strengths. He makes Tommy fight without his right arm until he can beat an opponent with his left. He makes him run drill after drill on the floor, because, "There's nothing elegant about a one-punch fight, kid. Someday you're gonna fight someone who can dance and then what're you gonna do?"

He doesn't let up on the fucking Beethoven, because at Frank's gym they do things Frank's way, and Tommy can't pinpoint when the shift comes but it gets in his head, finds some switch inside him that makes it quiet, like this fucking bubble of calm that gets him in the game, slows the rush of blood and adrenaline to something that sounds a little bit like waves on the shore, like the water rushing onto the sand in Atlantic City right before his life turned upside down and maybe— 

— maybe got better.

 

"You're improving, kid," says Frank, approaching Tommy as he's peeling the tape from his hands, retreated back to a far wall of the gym, away from the crush of people.

"I know," says Tommy.

"Uh huh," says Frank. "You free tonight?"

It takes a second for the question to sink in. "What?" says Tommy. He looks up.

"Do you have plans tonight?" says Frank, sounding amused.

"What's it to you?" says Tommy suspiciously.

"Brendan's doing a grill," says Frank. "Says you should come."

"Brendan can't ask me himself?" says Tommy, irked.

"I guess I see you more these days than he does," says Frank. "What's up with that, by the way?"

"None of your fuckin' business," snaps Tommy.

Frank twists his mouth, studying Tommy thoughtfully. Tommy scowls at him and goes back to the tape on his hands. 

"It's not charity," says Frank eventually. "Or pity. Brendan wanting to hang out with you."

"You don't know shit," says Tommy. He doesn't look up.

"It's not guilt, either," says Frank. "It's family. He loves you. He just wants his little brother back."

" _Fuck_ you," spits Tommy. 

"I guess you want your big brother back, too," says Frank. "Maybe too much. Maybe so much you can't handle giving him an opening. Is that why you're avoiding him?"

"I will punch you in the fucking face," says Tommy, low and rough.

"Then I will take you the fuck down," says Frank. Tommy snorts before he glances up at him, but Frank looks dead-set serious, looks _dangerous_ , eyes sharp, lithe muscles half-glowing.

He wonders abruptly why Frank never joins in their rotations. He'd be a sight to see.

"You scared?" says Frank after a moment, tilting his head.

"Of you?" scoffs Tommy.

"Of a grill at Brendan's place," says Frank. "Maybe his two baby girls?"

 _Yes_ , Tommy doesn't say. He's fucking terrified. He can't have that— that perfect family, that happiness, because he'll fuck it up, and then he'll lose it, and he's bone-tired of losing things.

"It's just some burgers, Tommy," says Frank quietly. "It's not a one-time thing. It's not some big event. It's not a _fight_. You don't gotta win or lose anything. Just eat a goddamn burger."

Tommy stares hard at his hands, free of tape, bruised and busted skin. "Life, huh?" he says.

"Yeah, Tommy," says Frank, smiling a little. "Fuckin' life."

 

Brendan lights up like a fucking firefight at oh-dark-hundred when he spots Tommy lurking behind Frank at his front door. Tommy would be embarrassed for him, but he doesn't have time before Brendan is enveloping him in a hug, and then he's too busy trying to figure out where to put his hands, finally patting Brendan awkwardly on the back in an attempt at normalcy.

He pulls it off, if Brendan's continued beaming when he pulls back is any indication. Tess is waiting with cheek kisses and gentle perfumed hugs when they step inside, and Tommy can hear the kids somewhere further in the house, laughing and shouting. 

"How you doin', Tommy?" Brendan asks as they all move towards the kitchen.

Tommy shrugs. "Shoulder's good," he says.

"I didn't ask about your shoulder, man," says Brendan.

Tommy rolls his eyes. "I'm okay," he says.

"Yeah?" says Brendan. "No more trouble from the Corps?"

"Corps gave me a medal and told me to get lost. Some PTSD shit. Saving face."

"PTSD?" says Brendan. "Are you— "

"I'm fine," says Tommy.

Brendan doesn't look convinced, but he drops it.

They go through the kitchen, grab a drink, head out the back to watch Brendan grill. Tommy has one beer and a ton of water. He plays with Brendan's girls, because they don't care what he says or even if he talks at all, careful 'cause he's pretty sure he'll break them if he moves the wrong way. He eats a goddamn burger.

 

"I think that went pretty well," says Frank as they head out of Brendan's place.

Tommy snorts. "Don't know why I mentioned the fuckin' PTSD," he mumbles, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Gonna be all over me trying to help and shit more than ever."

"I told you, kid," says Frank. "He loves you. That's all any of this is."

Tommy doesn't say anything.

"Hey," says Frank. "At least you still talk to your family."

"We comparing shitty families now?" says Tommy, shoulders rising. He knows other people have it tough. He grew up surrounded by them. It doesn't make his stuff hurt any less.

"No," says Frank mildly. "I'm not trying to get in a pissing match, Tommy. That ain't healthy, ain't gonna do anyone any good. I guess sometimes it's just nice to know you're not alone."

 _I am alone_ , Tommy doesn't say, because he's not so sure that's true anymore. 

Ain't that a kick in the fucking teeth. 

He's kinda sick of talking about himself, anyway, which is why he finally goes with, "So why don't you talk to them? Finally getting pissed they grew you up with fuckin' Beethoven?"

"No," says Frank. "I grew myself up with fuckin' Beethoven because my family was pissed I sleep with guys."

Tommy tilts his head. "Fuck you?" he asks.

"Fuck you," Frank agrees, grinning.

 

Tommy's nightmares aren't loud. He wakes from them with a cut-off gasp, choking on the breaths he can't quite catch, cheeks wet with tears that fall without any accompanying noise. 

The worst thing about them is that they're not predictable. He can't go to sleep knowing which of his myriad shitty experiences is going to resurface and wake him up. He can't brace for it. Sometimes it's the whistle of falling artillery and the screams of his brothers as they die. Sometimes it's Manny, gasping out wet, blood-muffled breaths in his arms. Sometimes he dreams he's running from gunfire, bullets ripping through him, tearing him to white-hot shreds but not enough to stop him from running and running and _running_ , just pain and exhaustion and desperation, neverending, never able to slow down or stop, never able to rest. Sometimes he dreams he goes down with the rest of his unit, a big fiery explosion of ash. 

He doesn't mind that one so much, honestly. At least there's something kind of right about it. 

This time when he dreams it's not Manny dying in his arms— it's Brendan. 

He comes awake with his hands clenched so hard in the sheets they hurt, and he stares at the ceiling for a long moment, counting his breaths, before he swings out of bed.

He leaves his shitty apartment— the one that would leave the least sizeable dent in the money Brendan forced on him— and heads to the gym. It's locked, of course— even the craziest junkies aren't out at four in the morning, but Tommy still has his key, so he lets himself in, flicks on a light in a distant corner, and veers towards the closest punching bag to go at it with bare fists.

He swings and swings, everything he's got, knuckles swelling and splitting against the brick wall of his _fucking_ nightmares, trying to push through with some kind of tangible proof he's come out the other side, a wound in the aftermath of battle, a mark of survival.

"What the fuck are you doing?" snaps Frank, some indeterminate length of time later. "Tommy! Wrap up your hands or get the fuck off my bag."

Tommy keeps throwing punches.

"Fucking Christ, kid," says Frank. "You're gonna fuck up your hands so bad you'll never fight again."

He's right, Tommy knows he's right, but he can't stop seeing his dream, can't stop seeing Brendan, sticky wet blood and life draining out of him— gasping, dying.

Another person gone while Tommy gets left behind.

His _brother_ gone, his flesh and blood, his brother who _loves_ him, fuck, _fuck_ — 

"Tommy!" says Frank. "Jesus fuckin'— " He takes Tommy out by the knees, knocking him down flat onto the mat. Tommy snarls and tries to get up, but Frank straddles him and pins his arms, and he knows exactly how to use his weight, how to use his strength— Tommy can't fucking move. He fucking tries.

"Fuck," he spits, "Fuck you, get off— "

"Tommy," says Frank. "Hey, kid, it's okay. Stop, just— just breathe. Come on, it's okay, breathe with me, Tommy."

Tommy turns his head to the side, trying to pull himself the fuck together. His eyes sting and his throat aches and he's suddenly this fucking close to crying, Jesus. He can't _breathe._

"It's okay," says Frank again, softly. "It's okay. You got this, Tommy. Just breathe. With me, okay?" He puts one of his hands on Tommy's cheek and turns his face back towards him. Tommy blinks distantly at the ceiling. "In," says Frank, his stupid earnest hoarse voice, "And out. In and out. Just follow me."

Tommy does, because it's ingrained, listening to his trainer, and so is Frank, by now, and he's not sure how long it takes, but he can breathe again, and he can see Frank, looking down at him, face open but not pitying, calm and controlled like he is standing by the side of the ring.

"That's it," says Frank. "There you go."

"Fuck," says Tommy. " _Fuck_."

"It's okay," says Frank again. "You're good, Tommy."

"Get off me," says Tommy.

Frank shifts his weight back a little, but doesn't otherwise move. "Tommy— "

Tommy jerks upright. He doesn't quite realise what he's doing until he's kissing Frank, muttering, "Shut the fuck _up_ ," into his mouth, punctuating it with a bite. 

Frank goes completely still. One of his hands is still hovering over Tommy's cheek, the other still digging hard into his arm, and Tommy pauses with their breath still mingling. "Yeah?" he says.

"Shouldn't," says Frank. His voice is very rough. "Fuck, Tommy— "

"Fuck that," says Tommy, scraping his teeth over Frank's jaw. "Come on."

"Jesus," says Frank, when Tommy bites down. " _Fuck_."

"Yeah," says Tommy, and kisses him again. 

They don't talk anymore. Frank curls his hand around the back of Tommy's skull and pulls himself in close; Tommy digs his fingers into Frank's stupid hair and tugs, scrapes his nails down his scalp to the nape of his neck. It makes Frank's hips jerk, his dick twitch where it's pressed against Tommy's. Tommy thinks, _yes_ , and drops his hands to hook under Frank's loose workout pants, shove them down inelegantly. They don't get far, but far enough to free his dick, which is all Tommy wants. It's nice and thick, just longer than the wide breadth of Tommy's palm. It looks good nestled in his fist, the head snugged over the topmost curl of his fingers, slick and swollen a pretty purple-red. Frank makes a choked noise and Tommy tightens his fist, jacks him hard, biting down on the hinge of his jaw, the thin skin under his ear, lower down on his neck. He could almost come like this, Tommy thinks. It's been a long fucking time, and Frank looks so good, feels so good— he just needs a little more pressure, just a little more _something_ — and then Frank's hands are moving again, tugging Tommy's shirt up under his arms, worming into his pants. 

Tommy bites down so hard on his lip he's pretty sure it bleeds, but if it does it gets smeared with his spit over the side of Frank's neck, and Tommy is beyond caring. Frank's hand is rough and calloused on his dick, dry enough that it stings just a little, hurts just fucking right. 

He swipes his thumb over the head of Frank's dick and jerks him fast, because he wants Frank to come, he wants Frank to make him come, he wants to unspool and melt and draw in a breath that doesn't feel like it's climbing up through a tangled mess of barbed wire. 

When Frank comes he goes still and groans through his teeth, low and cracked. His jizz slicks up Tommy's hand, smears low on his belly. Tommy sucks in a huge breath that smells like soap and sweat and spice, and lets go abruptly when Frank's thumbnail catches his skin on an upstroke.

It's— it's fucking good. He might be shaking a little, but the aches in his arms feel like good aches now, fast fading into something heavy and weary and more comfortable than sore. 

Frank eases his hand out of Tommy's pants and swings himself off to the side, sprawling back on the mat and breathing hard. His hair is a mess and his skin looks damp in the low light.

"Shit," he says, when he's caught his breath somewhat, rolling his head on the mat. "Bleach."

Tommy coughs out an odd noise that is so creaky with disuse, it takes him a second to realise it's a laugh. Frank blinks at him, and then his eyes crease up right before he smiles.

 

Tommy goes home from the gym and sleeps the entire day, from first light until last.

He doesn't dream at all.

When he wakes up sometime after seven, he goes straight to Brendan's place. 

"Tommy, hey!" says Brendan when he answers the door. "What's up? Are you— everything okay?"

"Fine," says Tommy. "You gonna let me in?"

"Sure, yeah, of course," says Brendan hastily, stepping back. "Come in, man. Tess's just giving the girls their bath."

"Okay," says Tommy after a moment, because he doesn't really know how to respond to that.

"I was gonna make some coffee," says Brendan, turning towards the kitchen. "You want some?"

"Yeah, sure," says Tommy, following him. He sticks his hands in his pockets and lurks around by the counter while Brendan fiddles with some fancy coffee machine. It looks new. 

"Here you go," says Brendan, handing him a mug. "Still take it black?"

"Same as Pop," says Tommy with a wry twist of his mouth.

"Coulda learned worse things off him, I guess," says Brendan.

"Guess so," says Tommy. He swallows a mouthful of coffee. It's pretty good.

"You sure everything's okay?" says Brendan after a long moment. "Only, you know, you haven't been around that much, and never when I didn't ask you, so— "

"You still work out?" Tommy cuts across. 

Brendan blinks. "Yeah, 'course," he says. "I mean, I'm done with fighting and all, but still gotta stay in shape, right? I go for runs every day, gym few times a week, whatever works."

Tommy nods. He turns his mug between his hands. "When you go running?" he asks.

"Mornings, usually," says Brendan. "Before the girls wake up, you know, then I'm home to get them out of bed, get their breakfast, take them to school and stuff some days."

That works. "I can meet you here," says Tommy. "Six?"

Brendan opens and closes his mouth. "You wanna go running with me?" he says after a moment. His voice sounds very small and hopeful; very young. It makes Tommy's chest ache.

"Yeah," he says quietly, shrugging.

Brendan's face splits into a wide, helpless grin. "That's awesome, Tommy," he says. "That's great, I— I'd really like that. Six works, for sure."

"Okay," says Tommy. He knocks back most of his coffee. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Hey, no, stay for a minute," says Brendan. He half reaches for Tommy before he drops his hand. "Tess made muffins today. They got all this healthy stuff in them, for the girls, you know, but they're actually pretty good. Apple, I think. You want one?"

Tommy stares at him. "Okay," he says after a long moment.

"Great," says Brendan. "Sit down, man." He gestures at the kitchen table. 

Tommy sits. Brendan gets them muffins. It's a little fucking surreal.

"So," says Brendan when he joins Tommy at the table. "You look good, man."

"I do?" says Tommy. He's pretty sure he looks the same as usual. 

"Yeah," says Brendan. "Less— I dunno. Tense?"

Tommy thinks briefly about Frank's hand on his dick. "Yeah, maybe," he says.

"That's great," says Brendan. "So things are good?"

"Sure," says Tommy. "Pretty good, I guess."

Brendan nods. "How's it going with Frank?"

"He's fuckin' weird," says Tommy, because it's true. He shrugs. "I'm getting better."

He means fighting, and he means something else, too. At life, maybe. Saving himself.

"Yeah, that's Frank," agrees Brendan, smiling fondly.

 

They go running. It's not some big event. Tommy tries to outpace Brendan, and Brendan catches up. Brendan pulls ahead of him a little, and Tommy grits his teeth and levels up again. Brendan throws him a wild grin, creased-up eyes and bright teeth, and Tommy ducks his head to help school the matching smile his mouth tries to form. It's pretty good. 

When they're cooling down on Brendan's front lawn, Brendan glances at him and asks, "Hey, you wanna come in for coffee? Breakfast? Girls've been asking when Uncle Tommy's comin' back."

 _Uncle Tommy,_ thinks Tommy, blinking. Holy shit. 

Brendan watches him for a moment, silent, and when Tommy doesn't say anything for whatever length of time he deems too long, adds, "They loved you, you know."

"They don't even know me," says Tommy.

Brendan laughs. "That doesn't really matter with kids, Tommy," he says. 

"Ain't that why their parent's are 'sposed to step in?"

"Yeah, well." Brendan shrugs. "I love you, too, so. Ain't gonna bounce you outta your own family."

Tommy tips his head back to stare into the too-bright sun, and thinks that this is probably a normal kind of conversation, for most people. For him it feels like Brendan's squeezing down on his heart with his bare fist, shoved carelessly inside his chest. He's almost mad. 

"Tommy," says Brendan quietly. "Come on. I'll make pancakes."

Tommy swallows. "Do I gotta play with dolls again?" he asks. It comes out too raw, too hopeful.

"Not gonna lie to you, man, probably," says Brendan, grinning.

Tommy sighs. "Yeah, okay," he says. 

Brendan leads him into the house with an arm slung across his shoulders. His pancakes taste okay, but he can't flip them properly to save his life. The girls shriek and make an unholy mess and climb all over Tommy's shoulders. There's syrup in his hair and sticky handprints on his cheeks. The dolls make an appearance— Tommy saves one from an untimely death in the half-melted tub of butter. Tess watches him over the lip of her mug, hiding a smile in her coffee.

Brendan sits across from him, beaming like Tommy can't ever remember seeing him smile before, kicking Tommy's ankle periodically under the table. Tommy kicks him back.

He's pretty sure that's what little brothers are supposed to do.

 

Frank calls Tommy into his office a week later. Tommy's been running every morning with Brendan, had breakfast every morning with Brendan's family. He hasn't spoken to Frank outside of Frank yelling at him from the side of the ring when he comes in to spar. 

"Hey, Tommy," he says when Tommy ducks inside, shoulders raised. "Have a seat, man."

Tommy stares at him. 

"Seriously, sit down," says Frank, rolling his eyes. He's leaning back in the chair behind his desk.

Tommy sits, slowly.

"You doing okay, Tommy?" says Frank. Tommy kind of hates the way he sounds like he actually means it. Who fucking means that shit? "Haven't seen you 'round in the mornings lately."

"No," says Tommy. "I go running with Brendan now."

Frank blinks at him. Then he grins. "Yeah?" he says. "That's great, Tommy."

Tommy shrugs. 

"Okay," says Frank, laughing a little. "Well, I wanted to talk to you. I think you're ready, man."

"Ready?" echoes Tommy.

Frank nods. "You wanted to keep fighting, right?"

"Yeah," says Tommy. 

"Okay," says Frank. "I got some fights lined up for you, if you want 'em."

Tommy tilts his head. "You my manager now?" he says. "Gotta pay you a fee?"

"We can work something out," says Frank. "Or you can go somewhere else, if that's what you want. Anyone's gonna take you on if you ask, after Sparta. But I been training you these past couple months, and I'm telling you you're ready to get back in the cage."

"Okay," says Tommy. He's glad. It's been grating on him a little, session after session with no big fight to build towards, just waiting indefinitely. This is a good thing. So he's not entirely sure why he goes and says, "This you returning the favour? Or maybe getting the mess outta your hair?"

"What?" says Frank, frowning. 

Tommy raises his eyebrows.

Frank leans forward in his chair. "I'm pretty sure I already returned the favour, Tommy," he says, dropping his voice a little. His door is closed, but it doesn't hurt to be careful, Tommy figures.

Tommy nods. "You want me gone?"

"That's not— " Frank runs a hand through his hair. "That's not what I said."

"If that's what I want," Tommy says. 

"You're the fighter," agrees Frank. "It's your choice." 

"Yeah," says Tommy. "You in love with Brendan?"

"Excuse me?" says Frank. His voice goes all blank, dangerous.

"'Cause I'm thinkin'," says Tommy, "He asked you to get him into Sparta, right? You got about ten fighters here who're better odds than he was. But he asked. And you did it. You love him?"

Frank stares at him for a very long time, silent and almost eerie. "No," he says in the end. "I'm not in love with Brendan."

"Bullshit," says Tommy, scoffing.

"Okay," says Frank. "You think whatever you want. It's none of your fucking business."

"You gonna be my trainer, my manager?" says Tommy. "Then it's my fuckin' business if you're in love with my brother."

"No," says Frank. "It's only your fuckin' business if you're fucking _me_."

"Pretty sure I already did," says Tommy.

Frank snorts, tapping his fingers on the edge of his desk. "I dunno what that was, Tommy," he says. "But you want a trainer, a manager, from here? I don't fuck my fighters, so it's still none of your business. But for your peace of mind, fine. Maybe I thought I was. A long fucking time ago. I was a lot younger, a lot dumber. Had no fucking clue what love even was. I like your brother a lot, kid. He's a good guy. I love him, I love his family, I always will, but I ain't in love with him."

Tommy chews on his lip. "Okay," he says eventually. He stands. "I'll think about it."

 

"Frank says I'm ready to get back in the cage," says Tommy to Brendan.

Brendan glances over at him, then back at the sidewalk. "You gonna?" he says.

"'Course," says Tommy. He runs in silence for a while, then adds, "Need a trainer, manager."

"You don't want Frank?" says Brendan, surprised. 

"Dunno," says Tommy. 

"He's good, man," says Brendan. They round the corner into Brendan's street.

"I know he's fuckin' good," says Tommy. He pulls up on Brendan's front lawn and glares at the mailbox. 

"So what's the problem?" says Brendan carefully.

Tommy thinks about it. "He's like family, right?" he says. "To you."

"I guess?" says Brendan. "It's like that sometimes, with your trainer. He's a friend, too."

"Was it weird?" asks Tommy. 

"Being friends with my trainer?" says Brendan. "I— not really. I mean, it's Frank. It's— normal."

Tommy blows out a frustrated breath. 

"Tommy?" says Brendan, confused and hesitant. 

"I dunno," says Tommy. "Gotta think about it."

"Sure, yeah," agrees Brendan. "There's no rush. Breakfast?"

Tommy can already hear Emily and Rosie playing inside the house. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah."

 

"You don't fuck your fighters," says Tommy, stalking after Frank into his office when they're done with the next sparring session at the gym. 

"No, I don't fuck my fighters," says Frank, turning back to look at him. If he's startled, he hides it well. "Not when they're paying me."

Tommy nods. "You wanna fuck me," he says.

"Tommy— " starts Frank.

Tommy crowds him back into his desk, hands on his hips, and drags his teeth along the line of his jaw, up to under his ear. "You wanna fuck me," he says again, rough.

"Jesus Christ," says Frank. "Yeah, Tommy, I wanna fuck you."

Tommy pulls back. He nods. "I don't wanna go somewhere else," he says.

Frank stares at him. 

"I don't want another trainer, another manager," Tommy clarifies. "Don't like people I don't know."

Frank shakes his head. "Tommy— "

"No," says Tommy. "You got me used to your Beethoven bullshit, you gotta deal with that now."

Frank's mouth twitches. "Okay," he says. He lets out a breath. "Okay."

"Okay," says Tommy. He tilts his head. "We gonna fuck now?"

"Shit, Tommy," says Frank. He drags a hand over his face. "I told you, I don't fuck my fighters."

"Well," says Tommy, "If you fuck me, you don't gotta worry about fucking the rest of 'em."

"Are you— " Frank coughs out a laugh, startled and loud. "Jesus, Tommy."

"That's what I want," says Tommy. "That's my choice." He lets it hang, waiting.

"You're asking me to bet on you," says Frank, watching him carefully, considering.

"Don't gotta put no money on me," says Tommy. 

"And you don't gotta play dumb," says Frank. Tommy nearly smiles. "Shit." Frank blows out a heavy gust of air, shaking his head again. "I guess it's pretty stupid to bet against you, kid."

"Yeah," agrees Tommy.

"Jesus," says Frank. "C'mere." He hooks his hand around the back of Tommy's neck and reels him in, bites into his mouth fast and messy and _hard_.

Tommy kisses him back, something weird twisting up low in his stomach. He's not really sure what it is until they pull apart and a laugh gets caught up in the air he lets out, as unthinking as the need to breathe after sucking face. It's a little less rusty this time, a little more sure. 

It's happiness, he realises. He's happy.

Frank watches him, smiling, drags a thumb over the skin under his eye. "Yeah," he says quietly. "You're good, Tommy." 

This time, Tommy might actually believe him.


End file.
